Unsaid
by Sofia Razvi
Summary: Slash Sam/Dean. Sam's hand ghosts over Dean's skin and this time, Dean lets it.


Title: Unsaid

Author: Sofia Razvi

Pairing: Sam/ Dean, slash

Summary: Sam's hand ghosts over Dean's skin and this time Dean lets it.

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: none

Warning: language, homosexuality, incest

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Kripke does.

Unsaid

By Sofia Razvi

"Those dicks kinda had it coming, you know."

"Having their guts ripped out of their bodies, you mean?"

"More than that, really. Much more."

Sam, pondered over this last statement of Dean's as he stared down at the last of 16 year old Sienna Russel's bones that were, even now, being reduced to ashes, having been dug up from her grave, doused with kerosene and set ablaze with a mere flick of a lighter. He couldn't say he disagreed. Tracking down a young girl and torturing her every way heard of, just for kicks, _did _deserve violent treatment, possibly more violent than the extremely pissed off ghost of said girl could even dream of. However, he wasn't letting any such thoughts mess with the sheer rush that burning corpses gave him, a rush that he, more often than not, reprimanded Dean for. He thought he might like to try exploding something. That must be _freakin' awesome!_ If the crazy high Dean got that one time he blew up a possessed rollercoaster (yeah, demons _have _sunk to levels _that _low) was anything to go by.

"You plan on hurrying your ass up, Sam?"

Sam just grinned, and climbed into the impala. Not even Dean and his stupid music-Def Leppard at the moment, could ruin his mood. Salt-and-burns were a luxury they barely even dreamed of anymore and all he needed was a peg or five of strong whiskey to get him real good and happy. Not that he planned on getting drunk or anything, because he was generally incredibly stupid when sloshed. Also, getting drunk with Dean around- bad idea. He was never much in control of himself around his brother anyway, saying, not to mention doing, extremely idiotic things. Add good ol' alcohol to that and he was done for. Nah, he was just aiming for the warm and fuzzy feeling inside.

Thirty miles later, they booked a couple of queens at some shitty excuse for a motel and within minutes departed for the nearest bar. The bar was nowhere near as crappy as the motel. In fact, it had quite a good selection of chicks, much to Dean's liking. Two Budweisers, ten minutes of considerable peeking down the bartender's top, and another fifteen of laying on the Winchester charm later, Dean was out the door with a willowy brunette with tanned legs to die for, out doing things that Sam was trying not to think about. He downed his third shot of whiskey, dumped a few dollar bills on the counter, fished the impala's keys out of his pocket and strolled towards the car.

Dean's sexual appetite amazed Sam at times. After all, it was only the day before that the two of them had had sex…with _each other_. But then, he supposed fucking one's brother out of sheer necessity of satisfying one's physical needs was a poor replacement for real sex, with a_ girl_. Not that Sam ever felt that way, not that he really needed a girl, at least not since they had begun this crazy fucked up thing of screwing each other around a year ago, but empathy was one of Sam Winchester's many virtues. He had to admit that fucking Dean had been getting pretty hard lately. No, it was in no way due to Dean's lack of expertise (as if! Dean had enough experience to be able to outdo anyone in _that _department). It was actually all thanks to Sam's inability to keep his eyes off Dean. It was hard not to say "gorgeous" in a guttural moan every time he drank in the sight of his elder brother's pale sculpted form, his muscular arms, his broad, strong shoulders, his defined back…hard not to be transfixed by the bottomless gaze of those moss coloured eyes, those cupid's bow lips, full, moist and half-parted in desire…hard not to worship the Adonis before him…hard to just fuck and be done with it…hard not to fall stupidly, senselessly in love with his brother.

However, this wasn't something he planned on telling Dean. He knew that his brother would never be okay with something like this. Hell, he wasn't okay with the sex initially..._Dean Winchester_ wasn't okay with sex. Years of a kind of subconscious homophobia aside, incest was on Dean's list of unacceptable things, right up there with vampires, skinwalkers, and vengeful spirits. That first time at Iowa was the result of way more tequila than technically necessary to get drunk and almost six months of getting nowhere in the vicinity of getting laid. Details of not only the night itself-the kissing, brutal, desperate, all tongue and teeth as Dean nailed him to the bedspread with one knee on his thigh and his hands rucking up his shirt; the sex, just sex, no teasing, no foreplay, no words, just the bare essentials; the orgasm, coming fast and hard, with loud groans and screams- but also Dean's morning after reaction, were imprinted on his brain. He was quiet, and honestly, for Dean, that was saying something. No wisecracks. No eighties' rock blasting from the speakers of the Impala. Simple courtesies of first shower, freedom to choose to have a latte without being labelled 'a giant girl', no rejection of help in the form of a playful poke in the ribs and others, were extended. In a nutshell, Dean was acting like a civil twenty eight year old brother of a twenty four year old man whom he treated like an adult, instead of a paranoid, overprotective surrogate father to a man he treated like a twelve year old. Sam wasn't dumb. He knew the reason for these changes. Of course Dean blamed himself! This was his apology. A week or a little more of this and then Dean seemed to have moved on. He was back to normal and that week of awkwardness did not stop him from allowing Sam to press their lips together, yank his shirt off his head with one hand, unbuckle his belt, unzip his jeans and let them drop to his ankles. It did not stop him from allowing Sam to repeat the events of that night almost a month ago, the exact same events, only this time in a different motel room, in a different town, in a different state and on a different hunt. Two or three days of weirdness on Dean's part and things were back to normal. As normal as they could get, when they were brothers fucking each other on almost a daily basis. Slowly, Dean stopped behaving differently the morning after. Life was good. The sex was good. There was just one rule, they never mentioned it. Ever.

Apparently, Dean was done with his back alley sex because he was walking towards the car wearing that shit-eating grin of his, dragging Sam away from his thoughts. He tackled Sam for the keys who finally gave in saying "Asshole". Dean turned and with a smirk replied, "Nobody touches my baby but me, bitch. At least not without my permission." While starting the engine he asked, "How did you get'em anyway? Thought they were in my pocket."

"Picking pockets is an art you pick up in our line of work, big brother. And, of course, I learnt from the best."

"Aw, Sammy…just for that last bit, next time, all you have to do is ask."

"Next time you decide to keep me hanging when you're banging some girl behind the building, you mean?"

"Jealous much, baby?"

The last bit was said with a smirk and wasn't really meant to be anything more than brotherly banter. However Sam just had to say, "Me? Jealous? Naw…know why? 'Cause a week from now, it's me you'll be screwing, not her."

Holy fuckin' shit! He _did not _just say that.

Thank God, Dean decided to ignore that and clenched jaw aside, he didn't react. Sam silently vowed never to let his tongue run away with him again. Speaking without thinking was Dean's forte, not his. They drove more or less in silence, only interrupted by the notes of 'Billy's Got a Gun'.

Dean entered the room, and no sooner did Sam enter as well, than he had Sam pinned against the door, with one hand on his chest, catching him unawares. He deftly locked the door with a flick of the doorknob. He then proceeded to press his body up against Sam's, their hard, muscled contours aligning themselves together of their own accord. It was only when he captured Sam's mouth with his own, that Sam even attempted to push him away, gasping breathily, "Dean…I didn't really mean…we don't have to…" and Dean murmured, "For fuck's sake, Sam, shut up!" but decided to do it for him. He pressed his lips against Sam's, teeth gently scraping Sam's bottom lip. Sam wasn't all that far behind. His tongue flicked over Dean's glass smooth lip and pushed, begging and pleading for entrance, which Dean readily allowed. His tongue moved over Dean's in quick, deep strokes. He revelled in the feel, the taste of his brother and breathed in the smell of leather and smoke, gunpowder and cheap motel soap, old spice and scotch, all of it unmistakeably _Dean_.

Sam's hands began to unbutton Dean's shirt. With trembling fingers he removed his brother's black t-shirt, fumbling and graceless. Dean gently pushed away his hands and proceeded to give Sam's clothing the same, uncharacteristically gentle treatment. Belts were unbuckled. The hesitation with which their jeans and boxers came off, it might as well have been their first time. They were like teenagers, guiltily experimenting because they believed themselves to be in love. Sam lay a very much naked Dean down on one queen-sized bed, maybe his own. He pressed himself against his brother's body, slid himself a little lower and began working on him. They were yards of skin stretched on a dirty mattress in a nameless motel in a nameless town, as he flicked his lips over Dean's jawline, gently bit on the sensitive flesh between shoulder and neck and ran his tongue over the now slightly red area. He caressed the scars of the hunt all over his brother's body with the rough pad of his thumb. He bit and he laved and he sucked on Dean's neck and his shoulder and his collarbones. He lay feather light kisses on his chest, his stomach and was moving lower down, when Dean pulled him up with a fistful of his brown hair, saying "Sammy…love you…want you" and once again brought his lips to his brother's. He entangled his fingers in Sam's chocolate brown locks, as if he would never let go. Their almost identical hazel eyes were darkened with lust as they stared into each other. Sam murmured softly against Dean's lips, "Want you, Dean…always…want you so bad". They marked each other for the first time before they sucked each other off, before they entered each other, before they spent the whole night coming over and in one another, and coming, and coming all over again, reduced to incoherence and a vocabulary that consisted of broken syllables of each other's names, and 'want' and 'love' and 'fuck'.

Maybe it hadn't registered that they were making love and not fucking. Maybe it had. But the warning bells hadn't really rung yet. They wouldn't. Not till the next morning, at least. Then they would talk about it. Sam would. Dean would put on his devil-may-care attitude, wear a cocky smirk and think the issue dealt with. But 'the talk' would happen, wherein they would struggle to articulate all those things that they had so wordlessly and effortlessly said that night, through gentle touches and soft, incoherent moans. The issue would be resolved in the 'happily-ever-after' way, if Sam had anything to say about it, and Sam would, because Sam is a stubborn bastard. All of this would happen. But not now. For now, they were content to lie in each other's arms, and drift off to blissful sleep, dreaming of one another.

THE END


End file.
